by Sabrina York
“Please.” A whisper. But a whisper that nearly unmanned him. He continued this delicious exploration, rubbing his palm along her bare thighs. He found dampness long before he reached her core. Hell. Her inner thighs were coated with cream.
He nearly came right then.
Nearly.
He wasn’t stupid.
He clenched his balls against the overriding urge to purge and continued the upward trek, holding her stunned gaze all the while. Her lips were parted, damp. Her eyes were clouded and tiny tears clung to her lashes. Her breast heaved as she gasped for breath. And then she froze. She tipped her head, and arched her body. Her muscles clenched.
For he had found her.
And damn. She wasn’t wearing any smallclothes. No annoying stockings. Or anything.
He rested his forehead on her shoulder, desperately trying to retain the slipping leash of his control. She was wet. And hot. Her pearl, when he found it, stroked it, was a hard slick button. As he nudged her bud, she cried out, shuddered. He thought, perhaps, she came right then.
To be sure, he slid a finger into her sweltering canal. He stilled. God, she was tight. And yes. She twitched around him, tiny shivers hinting that she was poised on the edge of a crisis.
His body seized. He yanked out and, despite her cry of protest, tossed up her skirts. He eased her back on the cushion when she tried to sit. “Mignon,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
With a whimper, she complied. Ethan readjusted his position, lowering his body so he was level with her belly. And he kissed her there. He was aware of her cries, her whimpers and her groans, but he was intent. He wanted to taste her. Had to taste her.
He kissed her belly, dabbing his tongue into her navel, drawing it across her trembling flesh and, when he was certain she would allow it, down. Down into a fragrant nest.
When his questing tongue found her clitoris, she rose up again, but only to gape at him in reverent shock. “Oh, God, yes,” she warbled, and flopped back on the cushions. She opened her legs wider and fisted his hair, to drive him back to task.
And to task, he did go.
He loved the taste of her, the smell, the feel. As he licked her bud, sucked and nibbled her to insanity, he fucked her, first with one finger and then with two. The third would not fit in—which had him quickly approaching insanity himself. Her cunt was weeping and wet, a quivering, clutching cavern.
He wanted to make her come like this, to watch her body squirm as he delved her depths and found her most tender spots.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
He needed… He needed.
Without thought, he rose up and scrabbled for the placket of his trousers. He opened it with trembling fingers and pulled out his cock, fisting it, guiding it to heaven. He lowered himself between her legs and nudged at her hot, slick center.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes.”
It was all the encouragement he needed. Without a word, without a thought or a breath, he slid in. And oh.
God.
Dear God.
She was so tight. So warm. The walls of her cunt shivered over his sensitized flesh, making his cock bobble and strain. He was so close. Too close.
But he couldn’t come yet. He wanted to make her come. Come with him. He stroked her, slipped deeper. She shook, a garbled plea hovered on her lips. He thrust harder, deeper still, lost in bliss.
He pulled out slowly, smiling when she muttered in denial, tightening on him and trying to keep him. But he quickly reversed his direction and slipped back in, shivering at the exquisite sensation.
She cried out. The tight grip of her cunt sent sizzling fire to his balls and he groaned. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to take it slow, but that time, that delusion, had passed.
He rose up slightly on his knees and shifted position. Ah. Better. Much better.
And then, he fucked her. Madly, crazily, like a beast. He thrust his cock into her again and again, with each plunge fighting the friction of her cunt, battling the resistance. She clenched tighter and tighter as his strokes became short and fast. It became difficult to push through, deliriously difficult.
Her eyes flew open. Her cunt contracted around him with a mind-numbing clench. She arched up into him with a wordless sob. Gouged at his shoulders. Thrashed against him. Wept as bliss took her.
He smothered her cries with his mouth, taking them, drinking them into his soul. Not because he was worried someone would hear and come upon them here in the dark reaches of the Carlisle-Grant garden. He was not. But she might be. If she were in her right mind, not flown with passion, she might want to preserve the shreds of her dignity.
She seized around him again, wailed into his mouth.
Then again, perhaps not.
Still, it was what a gentleman did to protect a woman, when he was balls-deep in her weeping cunt, in a rose-strewn folly. It was what a gentleman did.
After she came, her cunt loosened, just a tad, enough to ease his passage. Enough to make it possible for him to fuck her faster and harder. She came again as he worked away inside her. And again. Each time, her cries rose higher and higher, her riotous orgasms became more frantic.
When his cock started to swell, when his balls pulled tight and close to his body and the urge to spill came upon him, he thought briefly about pulling out—he’d always been careful before. But she did something with her muscles, some circular, sucking motion that cleared his mind of all notions beyond sinking deep and hard into her tight body and soaking her womb with his seed.
And ah. Ah.
His orgasm was magnificent. He felt it to his toes, that hot rush of come. Every cell in his body rejoiced and exploded with awareness, with ecstasy, with bone-deep relief.
It was magnificent.
She was magnificent.
Yes, he thought. It had been far too long.
Chapter Two
Eleanor lay on the cushions of the folly, holding her lover. He had collapsed upon her once he’d come. She’d felt the hot stream of his ejaculation filling her and, though she’d been in the throes of an amazing orgasm, a great wash of relief had suffused her.
He’d done it. Planted hope inside her.
Gently, she stroked his silky hair. Heavens. He was beautiful. Wonderful. His seduction had been gentle and kind. He’d been patient with her. And their coupling, well, it had been like nothing she’d ever known. It had been wonderful.
And now… Now she knew. Now she knew what her friends were talking about when they spoke of desire. Passion. Coming.
Yes. He was a wonderful lover.
A pity they could never do this again. A pity she could never know his identity. He could certainly never learn hers.
He lifted his head and kissed her. His lips were velvety, his essence delicious. She knew he intended it to be a brief buss, but she pulled him closer and urged it into something else.
When it ended, they were both panting. He stared at her through the night, through their masks. And though he was incognito, it was as though she knew him. All the way to his soul.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh yes.” She smiled. “That was perfect.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
He had no idea. It was the best lovemaking she had ever known. She would clutch the memory to her breast for the rest of her life.
Best leave now, before something ruined it.
She wiggled beneath him and he rolled over to the side. “Sorry.”
She put her palm to his cheek. “I loved it.”
“I just collapsed on top of you. Rather ungentlemanly.”
“I loved it. You are so solid.”
He chuckled. “Is that good?”
“Very.” Ulster had been slender and bony and cold. He, this nameless man, was warm and vibrant and solid. She liked it very much. Too much. She sighed. “I must go.” She sat up and rearranged her skirts. He did the same, tucking his penis back into his trousers and refastening the placket. They sat there, side by side,
in silence.
“I’d like to see you again.” His words were so soft she almost missed them.
She met his gaze and her heart wept. She’d like to see him again, do this again, but it was unthinkable. Utterly impossible. “Of course. Where can we meet?”
His grin was blinding. “How about Hyde Park? Tomorrow at noon. It won’t be so crowded then.”
“Hyde Park is a large place.”
“At the Grand Entrance, then, beneath the middle arch.”
Eleanor tipped her head to the side. “How will I know you?”
“I’ll be carrying one red rose.” His lids flickered. “But Mignon, there is something you need to know about me.”
She laid two fingers on his lips. God, he was alluring. Just touching his lips made her body ache for their caress—she trembled—down there. “Don’t say anything.”
“But—”
“No.” She kissed him gently and stood. “I must go. ’Til tomorrow.”
He stood with her and once again she was struck by the splendor of his body. He was a truly magnificent specimen. She hoped—she hoped to God—his seed had taken root within her. Then she would have a permanent reminder of this night, this man, this dream.
He bowed and took her hand, pressing a warm kiss against her hand. “’Til tomorrow, my lady.”
She turned away and hurried back through the labyrinth, swallowing her tears. What a lovely fantasy.
Too bad she would not be there.
He waited at the grand arch of Hyde Park for two hours. Standing in his crisp morning suit with his hair slicked back, a stupid hothouse flower in one hand. And as each lady approached, his heart lifted with anticipation. He scanned each one, gauging the shape of her hip, the curve of her breast, the tilt of her chin, hoping. But without exception, the lady in question would glance at his visage. Her eyes would widen, nostrils flare, and she would veer off quickly in another direction.
He hated to think she hadn’t come, his Mignon. That last night hadn’t been as transforming, as glorious for her as it had been for him.
But he hated even more the prospect that she had.
That she had come, seen his horrific scar and scuttled off in fear.
By two in the afternoon he realized she wasn’t coming. Wasn’t going to claim him. And with this realization, a dark bitterness, a bone-deep sadness rose within him. Because he would never see her, hold her, love her again.
He wasn’t sure what it was about his Mignon that had moved him so. Certainly not that she’d opened herself to him so unreservedly, when other women would not, although the memory did send a warmth coursing through his veins when he thought of it. No, it was something more. Her scent. Her sweet voice, her presence.
She’d been intoxicating and, he feared, addictive. He wanted more. Ached for more.
But it was not to be.
He would never see her again. Never find her. She was lost to him in a sea of women, in a vast ocean of anonymous faces.
He wouldn’t even begin to know how to find her.
He put his teeth together and stared at the flower, the one he’d picked, so carefully, for her. He thought of tossing it to the ground but decided against it. It was, after all, all he had of her. He would keep it forever, watch it slowly wilt away. A reminder.
“Penny!” A familiar voice hailed him and Ethan peered out, through the growing crowd, to see his friend Darlington riding toward him on a beautiful chestnut.
Drat. The last thing he wanted to do right now was make small talk. Or attempt to appear human. Right now he wanted to slip into the earth and disappear, to crawl into a dark, dank hole and howl at the fates for their treachery.
Damn Mignon.
Damn all womankind.
He formed his lips into a smile. Or what he hoped resembled one. “Darlington.” He raised a hand.
James steered his stallion over and deftly leaped to the ground. His sandy-brown hair wafted in the breeze and his eyes sparkled. They did that a lot lately. “Well met,” he said, clapping Ethan on the shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
Ethan cringed, but only a bit. He knew what Darlington wanted to talk about. Since he’d tumbled into the parson’s mousetrap, he’d become so domesticated.
To his credit, James didn’t waste any time. “Are you coming? To the house party?”
It was the last thing Ethan wanted to do next week. What he really wanted—more than anything—was to find his Mignon. Although in his heart of hearts, he knew the task was impossible. He could attend every tawdry affair between now and Christmas and never catch a whiff of her. Hell, he could look right at her in a crowded room—in an empty room—and not know her. It was damn frustrating.
He should have followed her last night.
Oh, he had. He’d followed her as she’d made her way through the darkened garden and around the house. He’d watched her climb aboard an elegant—though unmarked—carriage. Watched her disappear into the mist.
He should have followed.
“Well?” Darlington studied him, a frown darkening his countenance. “Come on, Penny. Don’t throw me to the wolves like this.”
Ethan forced a laugh. “She’s your wife. Hardly a slavering predator.”
“Spoken like a true bachelor.” Darlington wiped a palm over his face. “You know how I hate these things. Picnics and punting. The interminable musicale.” He shuddered. “I’ve seen the guest list. A litany of prigs.”
“Hardly an incentive to attend.”
Darlington put out a lip. “But if you were there I would have a collaborator.”
“An accomplice?”
“Exactly. An excuse to escape the tedious teas.” God’s grace, Lady Darlington did love her teas.
Ethan chuckled and surveyed the parade of lovely women taking in the crisp spring air. Not a one of them would have him. And he was damn tired of all the reminders. Maybe it would be good for him to get out of town, remove himself from people who turned away at the sight of him. Maybe it would do him good to rusticate in the countryside for a month or so.
Maybe he could forget her.
James sensed his hesitation and propped his fists on his hips. “You did promise to help celebrate my birthday.”
He had. Damn it all. There was nothing for it. Ethan dipped his head. “Of course I’ll come, Darlington. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Excellent. We leave on Sunday.” His gaze flicked to the rose in Ethan’s hand. “Are you meeting someone?”
Ethan checked his watch, one last time, and blew out a breath. “It appears not.”
James’ smile dimmed, but only a tad as his eyes flicked back to the rose. He knew full well Ethan had been stood up but would never mention it. “Excellent. There’s a new stallion at Tattersall’s. It’s coming up for auction tomorrow and I wanted to have a look at him in advance. Care to join me?”
“Absolutely.” Ethan tucked the rose into his lapel and collected his horse. “Perhaps we could stop by White’s for a drink.” Or six.
Darlington’s lashes flittered. He forced a broad smile. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent.”
Yes. There were times when it was quite wonderful to have a partner in crime. Quite wonderful indeed.
Because right now Ethan didn’t want to be alone. Not at all.
Eleanor jumped, sloshing her tea into her saucer, as the charming Ormolu clock on the mantel chimed noon. She glanced at it longingly.
He was there, right now, at Hyde Park. Waiting for her. She attempted a sip from Helena’s fine china cup, but her hand trembled far too much so she set the cup and saucer on the tray and sighed.
How she wished she could have gone to meet him. For one thing, she would have loved to have seen his face. Just once. For another, she hadn’t stopped thinking of her mystery lover since they parted. She’d lain awake in her enormous bed, in the frigid mausoleum of Ulster’s mansion, burning with fire for the touch of a man she’d never really seen.
She’d
relived every second of their tryst, every whisper, every sensation. And as she’d thought of him she’d allowed her hand to drift down her belly, to stroke herself where he’d caressed her, licked and lapped at her. She quivered, even now, at the thought.
He’d tasted her.
Ulster had certainly never done something so intimate. Then again, mating with Ulster had been anything but intimate. Anything but warm.
It astounded Eleanor that lovemaking could be so different from man to man, but apparently it could be. Could it be the difference was in her? The way she felt about her mystery lover, the arousal she’d known just being in his presence, had been worlds apart from her experience with Ulster.
Her body had never readied for Ulster. Never wept for his presence. Their matings, as infrequent as they’d been, had been painful.
Though not nearly as painful as what came after.
She winced at a wayward memory, this one far darker and not pleasurable in the least.
While she regretted the brevity of her tryst with her magnificent masked lover, she couldn’t help but send up a prayer of thanks to heaven, or whatever power had led her to him. Because of him, because of last night, she now knew coupling didn’t have to be a misery.
It could, in fact, be extraordinary.
Eleanor reached for a second scone. She’d been hungry lately—it had been so long since she’d had an appetite. In the back of her mind she nursed the hope that this meant she might be with child. She smiled at the thought.
The smile was still lingering on her lips when Helena bustled into the room. “I’m so sorry, darling. That took forever.” She took her seat on the divan beside Eleanor and gusted a sigh. “Those Hammersmiths are so long-winded.”
Eleanor bit her lip to quell her smile. “It was kind of them to visit.”
“Was it?” Helena wrinkled up her nose, reminding Eleanor of the young, friendless waif the countess had been when they’d met years ago at Lady Satterlee’s School for Girls. It wasn’t a persona Helena showed the rest of the world—the ton saw her as the staid, reserved Lady Smythe, Countess of Darlington. Only Eleanor—and James, of course—knew of her penchant for running barefoot through the dew. “They were angling for an invitation to James’ party.”
